


Sixty Minute Years

by perfectlystrange



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (and saves Steve), Bucky Barnes Remembers, CARBB 2019, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Withdrawal, HYDRA induced drugs, M/M, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Avengers (2012), Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, The Winter Soldier finds the Valkyrie, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-02-29 08:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystrange/pseuds/perfectlystrange
Summary: Bucky closes his eyes wanting his last image to be of Steve. He blinks and is met with the familiar cold of the operating table pressed against his back.66 years later news that Steve Rogers survived the crash in the Arctic makes headlines throughout the world. Steve just wants to find the man who saved him. It proves to be a difficult task, even when Steve makes a public announcement to urge the man to come forward, even after he receives letters.He'd been closer than he'd thought all along.





	Sixty Minute Years

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a collaboration for the 2019 Captain America Reverse Bang. It was inspired by the artwork created by the talented [flyingpoisson](https://flyingpoisson.tumblr.com) that can be seen below. I was very excited to have claimed the art and the fic itself evolved into something much longer than I thought I'd get to-double the length to be exact!
> 
> Thank you to my two betas for getting it finished in time for my posting date: [withinmelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/pseuds/withinmelove) and [sonorousandloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonorousandloud). 
> 
> Enjoy!

**PART ONE: ON A WINTER’S EDGE**

 

Bucky closes his eyes wanting his last image to be of Steve. He gets his wish, only the truly pained look in Steve’s eyes makes him almost wish he hadn’t—almost. The cold of the snow melts into a very different kind of bitterness. He blinks and is met with the familiar cold of the operating table pressed against his back.

Bucky is sure that the shiver up his spine has nothing to do with the temperature.

 

~

 

Bucky holds on to the memory of Steve, determined to keep one piece of himself. He lets every aspect of Steve fill him until Bucky is sure it’s spilling over.

The pain crawls into every groove of him.

 

~

 

Bucky holds on to the memory of Steve. Each part is blurred at the edges but the majority remains. Steve is still the clearest.  

The pain continues to snakes up his neck.

 

~

 

Bucky holds on to the face of a blond man. He knows he’s supposed to remember who it is. He knows he’s supposed to forget. The pain numbs for the moment he is able to focus on the face. The name sits out of his periphery. Bucky reaches but is met with searing pain. The same frustration of searching for a word fills his vision.

 

~

 

The Soldier stares at the photo of a blond man. The man is featureless. He is a target.

The Soldier stands ready.  

“He is far from ready for a mission. He hasn’t been trained, not to mention the conditioning is extremely fragile. We’re not even sure if seeing him will trigger a malfunction.”

The Soldier doesn’t linger on who _he_ is.                

“He has to be ready.” The man almost snarls. “The commandos are taking each of our bases like dominos, how long before they find this one?”

“It’s been only three months.”

“The procedure calls for one.”

“So, the fact that this subject has taken longer,” he sighs, “shouldn’t be a call for concern?” 

“If he fails,” The man with the snarl walks to face the Soldier. “Then we merely start again.”

 

~

 

Vaguely he feels as if there should be more direction to his walking. Vaguely he remembers that he has a mission to complete. It sits in his mind as both the only focus and as a faint conversation.

The needles of ice pinprick his cheeks. The cold wraps him in an inescapable blanket while he trudges through the deep snow.

The Soldier isn’t supposed to notice.

The base glows dimly, a narrow tunnel of light brimming the fog. That same fog had seeped into his mind.

_Eliminate the threat._

That had been the order and something feels very wrong.

When is a threat not a threat?

The Soldier sits with his back pressed against a boulder of the mountain ridge he’d climbed. He assembles the rifle with memorized precision. He has a memory of doing the same thing as someone else a long time not long ago. The ground is too uneven for a stand so he rests it against the top of the rock. 

He waits.

In a sea of white and grey, the red-and-blue figure projects brightly in the darker atmosphere. The figure’s effect is immediate. He takes his hand off the gun and lets out a shaky breath. Bucky sees straight away how much more brutality Steve fights with. There’s a new anger behind his punches and it’s paired with fatal accuracy. Everything is done in half the time. 

Bucky places the gun on his back without bothering to disassemble it and takes off running down the steep incline. He takes out a smaller gun and, without slowing, aims toward the approaching HYDRA agents. Three of them are down before Bucky reaches the bottom.

Steve searches in Bucky’s direction but he’s dressed to blend with the environment and with the wind, the sounds of his movement won’t reach Steve. Bucky runs toward the base. The snow crunches loudly underneath his boots but even then it’s muffled.    

As Bucky nears, something makes him pause. His brain skips on a loop.

_Eliminate the threat, eliminate the threat, eliminatethethreat, eliminathethreat._

_Save him._

The red in the sky grows. From just a pinprick of colour, it spreads, taking everything else with it.

He shakes his head and it’s gone, but when he blinks, the red has taken the entire sky.

The figure is still fighting. Taking down the Soldier’s allies. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t feel remorse.

He aims at the target.

The target dances from each agent. He isn’t looking at the Soldier anymore.  

The snow converges.  

He’s close enough to make a clean shot. Then the Soldier does something dangerous—he hesitates.

The bullet lands in the target’s leg. He stumbles onto the ground. A shield lies not far from them. The snow stains red as they drag themselves to it.

_The shield._

Something tugs at the Soldier, an urge. He needs to give the target the shield.

The Soldier moves towards it. The star guiding him like it means north. He considers it a moment. Even when he sees the target nearing.

The storm holds a thick veil between them.  

Before he can delay any further, the Soldier picks up the shield and throws it toward the target.

Half of him is aiming it, the other passing it. Without meaning to, he watches.

The target sits back on his legs. He squints at the Soldier as he places the shield on his back. The target curls over.

“Who are you?”

The Soldier runs, letting the veil consume him.  

 

 

~

 

The Soldier holds onto a word he isn’t supposed to know. He grasps at it with all his might. It’s the most important word.

_Steve._

He doesn’t remember what it means, but knows how it feels. How it rolls off his tongue when he whispers it to himself in the lonely hours. When the silence drifts down the hallway and seeps under the cracks of the door.  

They try to crowd his brain with other words.  

 

_Longing singes at the core with an unknown realization and glazed eyes._

 

He stares ahead.

“Schmidt is dead, as is Captain America. HYDRA has come to an end.”

“We are merely sleeping, there will come a time to rise again.”

“And what of this one?”

“There is a place where all broken things go. Put him on ice, let someone else deal with it.”

 

~

 

When he wakes, the world is splintered.

He isn’t where he was. There are some things familiar, too familiar—the chair, mainly. It seems that would be eternal.

The people are different. Their uniforms, their faces. The red in the sky is gone. Maybe it’s still there, waiting. For now though, it’s been replaced by a cold, icy blue. It bleeds into his eyes, sending a shiver down his spine.  

The two men drag him towards the chair. It’s all he can focus on. His limbs are stuck in a dream state.

The restraints clamp down tight around his wrists and ankles.

“This is the soldier?”

“The rest of HYDRA has hidden themselves in the depths. He is ours for now.”

“How good is he?”

“He has yet to learn the way of HYDRA.”

“Not to worry, he will comply soon enough when he becomes a clean slate for us to fill.” The man to the right sneers in Bucky’s direction. “It was too late for him to be useful in the last war, but if we play this right, he could win us the next one.”

“The next one?”

“Should it come to pass, of course. Tensions are already running high.”

The men aren’t cautious with how they speak or with what Bucky hears—a sure sign of confidence that he was theirs. The heaviness in his limbs isn’t helping deny that.

The taller man of the two surveys him with a stone face.

“Do you speak Russian?”

“What d’you think?” Bucky pushes back.

“I think you are a snappy American who has yet to learn his place.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

The man leans down right into Bucky’s space. “I have all the time in the world to change that. Can you say the same?”

 

~

 

The bruises never have time to heal themselves before fresh ones make their mark. Turns out not many files survived the trip and the new handlers were eager to fill the gap of missing pages.  

Bucky forgets his name more days than not. It comes to him as a whisper of a long forgotten dream. Holding onto it distracts him from everything else.

He can feel himself slipping away more each day. Every second swallows another part from the past as they stuff him with something new. The faces of the people he dreams of become blurry, their features warping into something indistinguishable. The people instead become a feeling, a scent, a keyhole into his past.

The chair is always there. He begins every day with it and often ends with it too.

Escaping seems less of a necessity and more like a haunting. Somewhere in his mind he screams at this revelation.

The Soldier forgets his name over and over and over until he doesn’t see the need to remember it.

When it frustrates him to be unable to recall it, his handlers assure him it does not matter. For a name is a possession that holds power. It would not help his work in HYDRA.

 

_Rusted clocks that have prolonged ticking—he isn’t sure if they are even linear._

 

His handlers have it all wrong, though. Because the more they teach him the way of HYDRA, and where he fits in their reign, the less he cares. They shrink the space in which he can hold on to his own thoughts and it just makes him hold on tighter.

* * *

 

  * _A Brooklyn sunset casts over the city spires. The colours bleed through the windows. It’s a familiar thing._
  * _The smell of cigarette smoke curls through the hallways of their apartment building. The wallpaper remembers the scent long after the cinders have cooled._
  * _There’s so many people in the small space. All familiar to him in deeper ways than he could know._
  * _He brushes shoulders with someone down the cobblestone streets. The boy leans inward and Bucky breathes in his warmth._
  * _A night that brings them comfort and closeness along with a thousand unspoken words, forever locked underneath._
  * _A cyclone—it brings sun and blue skies. It is not a storm, it is a structure. Steve sits beside him; he’s so close now. Bucky isn’t what takes his breath away._
  * _The tide swells and crashes. The water rushes along the sand—a cycle unbroken by anything._
  * _A radio crackles in the classroom. The dreaded news trails into their ears with the knowledge of what he must leave behind._
  * _It’s his last night in the city. He smiles to hide the terror of everything else. It sits in the creases of his eyes._
  * _The mud brims to the edge of his boots. It’s cold, so cold; he resents it._
  * _The cell is only slightly warmer than the outside. His clothes cling to his skin like an icy kiss._
  * _A face comes into view. It’s one he’s seen before but always as a ghost. Steve rescues him as Bucky murmurs what’s left of his own face, his own identity._
  * _It isn’t raining but it feels like it should be. The guilt hangs in the fog. A layer he can’t escape; it almost suffocates him. It isn’t his guilt to feel—he feels it anyway._
  * _The embers of a campfire stretch into the night sky—clear, save for the smoke. There’s laughter scattered in the war zone._
  * _They hunch over a bar, loose smiles passed secretly, openly. There is more to what they both say._
  * _The frost stretches over the top of the train. All around him is a bed of white and jagged edges. Bucky reaches for the red and blue instead._
  * _Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve…_



 

* * *

 

_Seventeen fractured memories in a glass bottle, lost in the waves, they wait to wash upon the shore._

 

The Soldier knows that he still must obey. There is not even a choice, there is just the next day. That’s all they give him. He learns quickly and they send him on missions as soon as they deem him capable. The missions become how he keeps track of time. He never knows for sure how long it’s been between them, but there are details imperceptible to those who live their lives in a straight line.

 

_Daybreak becomes irrelevant as the days merge into one._

 

At first there are guards for his handlers in case his conditioning breaks down, as it has before, but he _learns,_ he behaves, and one by one they drop until he only has two handlers, the minimum required.  

He kills one of his handlers after a mission. He doesn’t remember why, but it feels right.

It comes back to him as they throw him in the chair, though he still doesn’t know why that meant he had to kill his handler. There was a boy, he was short, young. He tells the Soldier he is lost and reaches out his tiny hand. A handler shoots the boy where he stands.

The Soldier lashes out and his handler is dead before another word is spoken.   

And so they decide that he should get the chair a third time that day. He sits, complacent as the restraints lock into place. Part of him feels he should struggle, a larger part of him is still focused on the boy.

The boy moves from the bare and yellow street to another, one both known and unfamiliar. The road is much busier now, but the boy doesn’t react, just stares at the Soldier with big eyes. The buildings are tinted with red and blue. It drips down the side of the buildings, completely submerging them. The windows are streaked with colour too.

The Soldier clenches his jaw as the memory starts to wash away. Soon it will be only colour. Just red and blue.

A headache splits at the centre of his head as he grabs onto anything he can, but it’s like grasping at water.    

 

_Furnace flames burn cold, they creep with frozen tendrils into his distorted mind._

 

~

 

The plane pokes out of the ice having created a brutal hole.

The door flies off its hinges when the Soldier yanks on it with his metal arm. Darkness escapes through the new entrance. He notices a ladder that leads in deeper. The Soldier steps through and makes his descent.

Everything is crusted in frost, the layer thick and unforgiving. The sight sends a chill throughout his body.

He glances down at a sliver of colour. It’s unlike any shade in the rest of the plane.

They just about stop his heart.

The Soldier pauses, unwillingly captivated by what he sees. It’s too blue, too red. The star in the middle ruptures his head into two.

Something blocks him from going further into that memory. Even now, his handlers have a grasp around him.

The Soldier kneels down and chips away the ice. A body lies underneath the shield. The face slots perfectly into the missing piece. The Soldier’s head floods with heat. He feels a tear escape down his cheek.   

It’s the target; it’s his _friend._

His name is on the edge and he struggles to pull it out of the stronghold he’s created around it. The tendrils clutch it a little tighter the more he tries.

The Soldier punches the ice around the body and as it splinters it creates urgency within his blows.

A part of his conditioning flares and he’s suddenly compelled to aim his strikes on the man’s chest. He strains and a grunt escapes from his throat.

“You’re not going to win this time,” he manages to growl.  

He lands his fist into the metal and it crumples under the force. The cold would have left the structure vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why his handlers had always kept him in the winter.

A thought occurs to him, one that makes the situation even more difficult. He’s going to have to wake the man up safely and that means using one of the containers he was kept in.

His chest sinks at the thought of going near any HYDRA building, let alone inside one. He slumps to the ground and stares at the man for a long while.

“You realize how big of a pain in the ass you are right now? And you ain’t even awake.”

He lets out a sigh.

“I was so close to escaping, you know that? They slipped up, once in a lifetime, quite literally. But you make me feel more human, and that’s something hard to come by for me these days so you see? I have to get you outta here.”

 

~

 

The Soldier places the man carefully into the chamber. His muscles freeze at being so near to it. He clenches his jaw and continues anyway. Before he can react any further, he slams the door shut and glances through the glass, an itch of guilt seeping into his gut.

“This will help.”

He selects the sequence for reanimation and waits. He has to turn away, staring at no particular spot on the wall. The seconds pass achingly slow. When he was on the other side of the glass, it was always too soon when the door swung open.

He opens it now and the Captain stumbles out, his legs not quite remembering how to work.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The man doesn’t respond and the Soldier just slings his arm over the Captain’s shoulders. He guides them both the best he can to the med bay. Getting him in the bed is a struggle as the Captain begins to stir a little more.

“Here, this tastes like shit but it’ll help.” The Soldier tears open a sachet and almost gags on the memories it brings.

The Captain moves away as the Soldier hands it over.

“Yeah, I know,” the Soldier persists. “Don’t be so stubborn.”

The Captain frowns at that but sips it down anyway. The Soldier braces the Captain’s neck against his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

Once the sachet is empty, the Soldier helps him lie down. The Captain is out before he moves back.  

 

~

 

The Soldier finds out the Captain’s name is Steve. He uses it the next time he is awake.

That doesn’t happen for another two days.

He checks every hour that Steve is still breathing and that he’s warm enough. He thinks that four blankets is probably too much, but it doesn’t matter. Steve needs to stay warm, whatever it takes.

Warm and breathing and _peaceful_. Those are the only priorities.   

When Steve’s eyes open, the Soldier is right there.

“Who are you?” Steve asks, wearing a complicated frown.

_How is he supposed to answer that?_

The Soldier gulps, wide eyed. Then he settles on an answer, one he hopes to be true. “A friend.”

“A friend huh? Do I get to know this friend’s name?

The Soldier freezes, almost crushing the glass of water he’s clutching.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he mumbles eventually.

Steve doesn’t react, his eyes have closed again.

“Steve?”

The Soldier shakes him a little too roughly. “ _Steve?”_

He pauses when he notices Steve’s breathing is even and places the water by the side of the bed.

The Soldier lets out a tightly held breath.

 _He’ll be okay, he’ll be okay._  

He doesn’t pause to decipher why he cares so much.

The Soldier hasn’t had much need for distraction, he moves from task to task, a purpose behind every one. But now, with Steve the way he is, he struggles to find a distraction big enough. He turns his focus to gathering supplies so eventually, when Steve is recovered and the Soldier has no use, he’ll be able to slip back into the spaces between the cities.

He finds most of it in the storage room, including a large duffel. The Soldier shakes it and empties the contents onto the floor. He picks up a small packet out from the pile and inspects it. It appears to be food, compiled into thin strips and the Soldier pops one into his mouth. It immediately sticks to his teeth, he flicks it distractedly with his tongue.

He goes back to the supplies. The Soldier cracks the old safe in the wall and slides the whole wad of cash into the duffel, without an inch of remorse.

Cleaning out a HYDRA base isn’t the best idea for staying under the radar, but there is a strange comfort in going against protocol. The weapons are put under a rigorous check. The routine motions put his fingers in a trance and a slice of the agitation slips away.

He carries the bag back into the main room and the Soldier can already feel part of the restlessness take hold. He’s used to sitting still, sometimes for days on end. But it’s always a means to an end for a mission, surveillance, research, waiting for a target.

The Soldier goes back to the med bay. He chews the food strip and it works his jaw. Steve hasn’t moved. This is expected.

He should go. Steve is well on his way to recovering. If Steve wakes up again when the Soldier is here, he isn’t sure he’ll ever leave.

He starts to head out but stands at the door of the med bay for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Steve’s chest. The Soldier takes a step backwards before sighing inwardly and walking again into the room.

He goes to Steve’s bed and takes the chair beside it. He hasn’t even been able to say all he wanted. Didn’t even mention the biggest thing of them all.

“Now listen here, you’re gonna feel so out of place it hurts. It’ll ache in the deepest parts of ya, but that’s okay. You’ll get through it and maybe it won’t ever pass, but it’ll be the thing you have from the past.”

The Soldier inhales; his breath out is shaky.

“And maybe it’s selfish for me to leave when I’m the only one who’ll get what you feel, but I can’t stay. I’ve been on the wrong side of history my whole life and you feel right. I don’t know who you are to me, you’re so deep into my mind I can’t remember.

He chuckles. “Seems like I put everything special in there, so you must be something. You must be the goddamn best, ‘cause here's the thing, out of all the fractured moments, you’re the only one in there that feels complete.”       

The Soldier watches the tranquility of the outside, everything still and calm. It’s the most inviting winter has looked for as long as he can remember. He glances back to Steve, wringing his hands together.

“You helped find a part of me when I don’t even have my name.”

He presses both hands on his legs and pushes out of the chair. The Soldier takes a last look at Steve before turning out of the room. He’s through the front door before he can do anything else.

 

~

 

He isn’t sure why he chooses New York, but the city tugs at his chest. He knows he won’t stay for long, he can’t. HYDRA has their hold on every major city.    

With the supplies he commandeered from the safe house in Russia, the Soldier finds himself a motel to stay in. He slips on a pair of thin gloves he found and switches his jacket for a hoodie.

The lady behind the desk hardly gives him a second glance.

The Soldier dumps the duffel on the bed.He spotted a pair of computers at the corner of the lobby and decides it’s worth the risk to venture out to use one.

They screens sit back to back and someone is already using the one facing the wall. The soldier takes the other one having the advantage of having no one walking behind. He reaches behind the monitor and waits for the screen to come to life.

The cursor blinks patiently. He begins with the only name of his he knows.

 

* * *

 

 

| The Winter Soldier |

 **_Did you mean:_ ** _Summer Soldiers ?_

 

**The Winter Soldier Conspiracy**

Wikipedia

_The Winter Soldier Conspiracy was developed during the Cold War that pertains to a Soviet program kept heavily under wraps. Though any knowledge of such a program was denied, the conspiracy still grew, gaining traction during the later years of the 20th century…_

 

_The conspiracy has been deemed false, and the existence of any sort of similar program is not greatly known._

 

 _|_ Captain America _|_

 

About 927,000,000 results (0.71 seconds)

 

**The Truth Behind the Life of Captain America by Henry Gregovich - Goodreads**

Rating: 4.3 - 1,002,431 votes

Biographies > Historical Figures

 

**Remembering A Hero**

National Geographic - 2005

 _Mentions:_ **_Captain America_ **

 

**Project Rebirth - Historical Archives**

_Project Rebirth was a WWII program that enhanced individuals through a serum. The only successful candidate was Steve Rogers, better known as_ **_Captain America._ **

 

**The Howlies - A look into Captain America’s Right-Hand Men**

_The members known as the Howling Commandos fought alongside_ **_Captain America_ ** _during the most brutal years of the Second World War. The members included Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan, James Montgomery Falsworth, James “Jim” Morita, Gabriel “Gabe” Jones, and_ **_Captain America_ ** _’s childhood friend, James “Bucky” Barnes._

 

* * *

 

 

Something draws him to the last article so he selects it, taking him to the rest of the website.

It takes every inch of him to stop the building reaction towards the photo that loads. At first, he didn’t even notice what was wrong about it. It was just six soldiers wearing loose smiles, leaning towards each other. But one of them has the Soldier’s face, only this face carried less weight. The weight isn’t completely absent though, it rests in the sunken eyes that stared back.

 

 **_From left to right:_ ** _Falsworth, Dugan, Rogers, Barnes, Morita, Jones._

 

The name doesn’t open any wounds, but, it belongs to him.

In the article they called him Bucky, and it feels… light.

Bucky turns off the monitor and leans back in the chair, feeling as if he’s found the first piece to an elaborate puzzle.     

He spends the next two weeks calculating and planning the safest place to settle, the furthest spot from any known HYDRA activity.

He’s indulged a fair few times, he admits. Early on in the first week, he ventures outside and finds a diner on the corner of a nearby street. After that he returns every morning, always wearing a different disguise.

He’ll mostly last the whole day on the breakfast, his stomach used to surviving on less. He then forces down half a pack of the sludge he’s lived on for the past six decades. It works, after all.    

But now it is long past overdue for him to return into the shadows, to become a ghost just as he’d been taught. For once everything that HYDRA has given him will come back to haunt them. Everything they did to him will become their downfall.  

He’s been in the city long enough. The familiarity is beginning to sting. He allows himself one last glance and peers up at the towering skyline. The shiny, glimmering buildings stare back with their noisy advertisements plastered into the walls.  

 

**_A STORY OF THE DECADE: CAPTAIN AMERICA SEARCHES FOR THE HERO WHO RESCUED HIM (New York Times - April 29, 2011)_ **

 

Oh _fuck._

 

  
  
**PART TWO: A GHOST STORY**

 

 **_THE HERO WHO SACRIFICED EVERYTHING -_ ** _Captain America is revealed to be alive after remaining in cryo-status for nearly seventy years. Scientists theorize that the WWII hero survived because of the ice of the Arctic. A press conference is to be held at Stark Tower later this week. (April 22, 2011)_

 

_~_

 

**April 10, 2011**

A steady series of beeps fills his ears.

The first thing Steve notices when he opens his eyes is the gentle sunbeams billowing through the motes of dust in the air. The second thing he notices is that he is not in his apartment. The thought forces him upright, but the room brings a wave of peacefulness that stops his panic in its tracks.

The room is impossibly still.

He realizes a second later why he isn’t supposed to be in his apartment.

_“Don’t you dare be late.”_

They had found him.

_“Steve? Steve? Steve?”_

The Valkyrie had crashed nose first into unforgiving ice. He remembers the loud crackling of the comms as the waves had pushed the plane deeper under the surface.

But, more importantly, they had found him.

A glance down reveals that a series of tubes is what restricts more movement. He takes purposeful breaths as he takes in the rest of the surroundings.

Several single beds line both walls each supplied with advanced machinery. Though the style is modern, the beds themselves look old; their metal frames rusted completely at the hinges.

Steve also notices something else; he is alone. But more than that, he can’t hear anything beyond the walls. The silence isn’t usual for the time, certainly not in a hospital and certainly not in the middle of a war.   

He lets it take over, lets the blip on of his heartbeat on the monitor anchor him.

This is not normal. The awareness ripples through the room with instability.

Steve pulls out the drip from his arm and disconnects the heart rate monitor. He listens as the tone turns flat.

The first few steps are stiff, but his body catches on and by the time he reaches the door they feel normal again.

It’s a safe house but it’s nothing like any he’s been in before. He sees the HYDRA emblem and Steve immediately tenses.

There’s a familiarity to it, though. But that wouldn’t be unusual, he’s been fighting HYDRA for years. That isn’t what catches him off guard. Steve has been here before, he’s sure of it, his body is. He distantly remembers having the exact same response the first time he saw it. Steve isn’t sure how he has two memories that are the same. They sit side by side in his head.

The first one overlaps making both slightly blurred.

There was a man. He wore a mask at first. Steve can’t quite put together the features of the man so the mask becomes his face in Steve’s mind.

He was there when Steve woke up. He was gentle. Steve remembers the unsureness and conflict in his movements.  

If HYDRA has captured him, they have an odd way of showing it.

Steve turns the corner to find a set of stairs, the door wide open, leading downwards. There’s a tunnel of darkness both inviting him in and repelling him.

He steps down into it. The lights above flicker to life as though Steve had woken them from a deep hibernation.

He feels more alert than he’s supposed to be. There’s no heaviness that always came from the after effect of the grave injuries in his past.

The lower level holds a similarity to the medical room with its stark appearance. A tall cylinder stands at the back. It takes up most of the space. The machinery inside looks more worn than the rest but the style is unlike anything Steve’s seen before. He peers through the scratched and aged glass at the full body harness. Three unlit lamps hang overhead. The contraption isn’t something meant for his eyes. There’s a good reason that it’s hidden. Steve isn’t sure he wants to know exactly why.

He turns away, his mind enveloped in a thick and unforgiving fog. Images sail through it of a recent time in the hospital bed. The masked man is there again at his bedside. This time the man’s eyes are visible within the haze of his incomplete memories.

The image disappears abruptly when he catches a sliver of red and blue in the corner of his eye.

It’s the shield, _his_ shield.

They would have found it with him, perfectly laid out on his chest. His last attempt at survival.

A note sits on top of it.

 

- _I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. You’ll be okay now._

 

The handwriting beckons him in like a gentle embrace. The slight curl of the letters make an echo as a shiver up both his arms.  

Steve needs to get out before ghosts fill the space that his mind has left blank. He moves his fingers across the letters feeling the indent from the pen. He slips the note into his pocket before he can linger any more.

Despite the tone of the message, Steve doesn’t want to wait to find out which side they’re really on.

The air outside is fresh. A sharp breeze wreaths through the trees. There isn’t much of his surroundings that helps identify where he is.  

A thin layer of snow covers everything Steve can see. It looks old, hard. Even the sun looks like it has a blanket of frost covering it. He isn’t going to get far in this temperature.

After a quick search, he finds thicker clothes. Whoever kept it stocked knew what they were doing. He also finds a backpack filled with basic tools and food that should last him just up to a week if he’s careful.

Steve slings his shield on his back and pulls his hood well over his face. He pauses, watching the trees shudder. Truthfully he really isn’t ready to leave the warmth, but there were people counting on him. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out and he had to get back to Peggy.

The thought forces his foot into the snow and just like that, he ploughs on.

Steve makes out fresh tracks early on. They can only be three days old at most. Not wanting to alert anyone to his presence, he follows them print for print hoping they will lead him out of the forest and into a nearby town. The walk is slower because of it, although the gait is fairly similar to his own.

He treads lightly, keeping his head down to block the wind. The gusts are stronger now, the wind having picked up as evening settles in. It’s snowing too. Steve feels the gentle pinpricks of snow against his cheeks.

He remembers another time not long ago when he trudged through the snow—much deeper than it is now—near a HYDRA base. It wasn’t long after Bucky. The storm didn’t discriminate and Steve with all his enhanced eyesight could barely peer between the thick veil.

The memory is fresh, as is the anger it seems. Thanks to the man in the snow who both shot Steve and passed him his shield, it had left him in pieces; a rupture not just in his leg, but his mind too. The bullet wound had taken long enough to heal that the scar had still been visible when he grounded _The Valkyrie._

Steve tugs at his right pant leg and searches for the remaining scar tissue. It isn’t there. He moves his fingers over where it should have been but the skin is completely smooth.

It’s been longer than he thought.

Steve smooths the pants back into place and continues on the path with a new found pace. He misses a few footprints because of it, finding himself less concerned with being tracked.

A tunnel of light urges him forward. The glow is soft and uniform. Streetlights, he realizes. He’s reached a town.

Houses line the narrow street many of which still emit their own light. Steve enters a bar, bustling with people. He approaches what seems to be the owner, or at least the manager.

“Could I use your telephone?”

The man nods and beckons him to follow behind the counter. He gestures to the phone hanging on the wall and leaves Steve to his business.

Steve types in the number to connect him with Peggy and waits. The line immediately lets out a tone that has Steve moving the speaker away from his ear.

“ _This number has been disconnected."_

The jarring noise on the other end continues and Steve hangs the phone back on the wall to cut it off. He tries dialling a secondary number, but with the same results.

“ _This number has been disconnected.”_

As he leaves the bar, he distractedly notices a red haired woman leaning against a post. She watches him as he passes by. He thinks nothing of it and exits into the biting wind once more. The flakes glimmer in the pools of light cast by the street lamps and considering the situation, Steve is oddly captivated by it.

“Captain?” A voice startles him from behind. “You seem lost.”

Steve turns to find a woman standing nearby. It’s the same one from the bar. “I guess you could say that.”

“I’m from the SSR. I can help you get up to speed.”

“Really?” Steve stands on edge. “There a way you can prove it?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

Steve surveys her a moment. Her stance isn’t threatening, but there is something _off_.  

“You don’t seem to be startled to see me here, but I didn’t even know I’d be here.”

“Part of the job description, expect the unexpected.”

“Why is the secure line dead? It’s completely disconnected.” Steve tests.

“There’s a lot you’ve missed.”

Steve nods slowly, “What’s your agent code?”

“Sorry?”

Steve presses her against the wall and her hood falls down revealing bright red hair.

“When I asked you to prove it, you said there wasn’t one, but you could have told me your agent code. So who are you?”

She frowns. “You aren’t my mission, Captain. I saw the shield and thought you needed assistance. You’re right, I’m not with the SSR, I’m with SHIELD.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she struggles to take a breath, “like I said, there’s a lot you’ve missed.”

Steve releases his forearm and she slides to her feet. Her breaths are short and raspy.

He stands apart, his own breathing having quickened.

“Captain?”

He doesn’t respond, just focuses on a spot at the ground.

“Steve?” She walks round so she’s facing him.

He looks up at that, his face softening.

“Oh boy, I was not trained for this,” she mutters under her breath. “SHIELD was formed after the Second World War. It was founded by Margaret Carter.”

Steve wants to say she’s lying, but he’s already seen too many strange things to deny it.  

“You’ve been missing, presumed dead for over sixty years. I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to put it.”

His next breath catches and he clenches his jaw to push down the swell of absolute dread. “Peggy.”

Steve clears his throat and faces the agent again. “I’m sorry with how I reacted back then.”

The agent searches his eyes. “I think it was a perfectly reasonable reaction, but I appreciate the apology.” She rubs the side of her neck.

Steve smiles sideways and glances off.   

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“Funnily enough, no, Agent...?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Romanoff.”

Her face turns stoic again. “I can take you somewhere get you all the explanations you want. I’m just not the person who has them all."

“Who does?”

“Well, that would be Director Fury.”

 

~

 

“Sir, you need to come in.”

“I thought, your mission parameters include no external contact,” the voice on the other end says. It’s deep, an ease hidden within the polish.

“I need to withdraw from the mission. This is something bigger.”

She moves the screen towards Steve who sees a man on the other side. His face is set and an eyepatch is strapped across an eye.

There’s a pause as the man looks Steve up and down. “I’ll be there soon.”

The screen goes blank and Agent Romanoff slips it away. She sits on the corner of the sofa and gives Steve a pointed look. Her eyes speak everything that her expression doesn’t.

“Fury will be able to handle everything from here.”

Steve nods, glancing off slightly.  

“You going to be okay?”

The words are softly spoken, like she’s treading carefully. Steve can tell she isn’t used to the intimacy with strangers.  

“I’ll manage.”

The silence settles comfortably on the edges of the room. Steve is grateful she doesn’t push.

People always seem to need to fill the space when they are around him, a nervousness that comes with the uniform he supposes. Romanoff shows a sureness that splinters some of the ache rooted in his chest.

Director Fury arrives two days later, and in that time Steve had managed to look over most of the articles pertaining to his disappearance.

He went in eager to fill the gaps, but found after a few hours he was holding his breath with rapid frequency. Instead he spends his time out on the balcony, his eyes glaze over more than once.

After having not blown her cover Agent Romanoff is urged to continue the existing mission so Steve doesn’t see her again before Fury arrives.

“Enjoying the sunrise, Captain?”

Steve turns in his chair to find Director Fury leaning in the doorway.

“I’ve missed enough of them, don’t you think?”

“Do you make a habit of waking up before dawn?”

“I guess my body’s not too happy about the idea of sleep right now.”

Fury huffs a short laugh. “Well, I have to say, we don’t really have a protocol for this kind of thing.”

“So I’ve heard. You here to get me back in the world?”

Fury takes the second chair beside him.

“Is that what you want?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Steve raises his eyebrows. “I’ve woken up in a different century, I don’t think what I want applies anymore.”

Fury looks out to the field of snow.

“I understand this will take some time to adjust—“

Steve chuckles at the great understatement of the sentence.

“—but perhaps it will be easier with the comfort of home.”

He hasn’t even so much of thought of Brooklyn in the time he’s been awake. Strange how a place with such meaning can slip from one’s mind so easily.

In the war, it had come to him in dreams, the place he would return once it was over. Now he’s met with a dreadful silence at the touch of sleep. But then again, they were usually accompanied by a certain person. Steve isn’t sure if he’ll be able to find the same peace without him.

Steve smiles, eyes closed. He feels the warmth of the morning sun on his lids, the light seeps through.

“Perhaps it will.”

“We have a plane waiting whenever you’re ready.”

Steve peers out into the field, the snow glistening like glitter in the daylight. He stands up giving a nod to the Director.

“No time like the present.”

They drive to the airport in a car waiting outside the building. Every window is dark. The interior is smooth, a fresh scent fills his nose.  

The plane comes with a bigger shock. The sleek design is just as unexpected as the size.

“Stark as in Howard Stark?”

“As in Tony Stark,” Fury replies, “Howard’s son.”

“No shit?”

Fury looks amused. “He’s made quite the name for himself.”

“I’d have no doubt he would.”

Fury leaves Steve to his own devices while in the air and only share the same space when the meals arrive. They reach New York on the morning of the same day.

Steve steps out onto the tarmac where the plane landed in a private section of the airport. It’s quiet and none of the ground staff give him a second glance.

It feels good to be invisible, if only for the moment. A total of three people in the world know he’s alive, and it’s truly freeing. After all, he knows it can’t last forever.

He isn’t entirely sure if he’s ready to be back in New York. It’s not like he’s just coming home. It’s different, and pretending it isn’t going to be won’t end well.   

It’s inevitable though. The city breathes him in with one great inhale and releases everything Steve has been keeping in. It floods his body with an incomprehensible feeling that forces him to look away from the streets.

Steve has to keep his sights facing forward after that.

The car pulls up to the curb outside a monstrous tower. It doesn’t surprise him to find whose name is on it.

“Well, ain’t that a sight,” Steve remarks.

“He loves a show.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, a tight smile on his lips. He grabs the shield, secured in a fabric bag, from the seat beside him.

“Should I really be walking around the streets at the moment?”

“Come on, Cap, this is New York we’re talking about.”

“Some things never change,” Steve agrees.

Regardless, Steve doesn’t linger out in the open and follows Fury into the building.

The Director heads straight for the desk ahead and pulls out a badge.  

The receptionist just nods and Fury walks to the elevators off to the side.

The ride is quick, and soon the elevator pings on the top floor. Steve wills the doors to open slower, but it’s just as smooth as the way up.

Fury walks out of the elevator with a confident stride. Steve lingers enough for the doors to begin closing again. He stands idly beside the Director.     

“You must be Howard’s son.”

“Or he was my father. So nice to be able to meet the man he made all the fuss about.” He dips his head into a sideways nod. “Tony Stark.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Of course it is, but you haven’t got to know me.”

“Yeah sorry,” Steve replies, “I was busy hibernating in the arctic for sixty years.”

“Dad never mentioned the snark.”

“Yeah, well, he never saw beyond the uniform.”

Tony smirks with a somehow knowing look.

“Well, it seems like you two are getting along, so I’ll be off,” Fury sighs. “Unless there’s something else you need.”

“I’ll look after Capsicle here.” Tony claps Steve on the back. Steve shrugs him off. “Don’t you worry.”

Fury gives Tony a look, one that Steve’s sure he’s given before, before he turns to Steve.

He slips something into Steve’s palm, and Fury’s expression changes instantly, more severe.

“If you need anything, I’m on the other end of that call.”

Steve looks down to find that it’s a card.

“It’s a secure line, so don’t go handing it out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, sir.”

Fury nods and heads back towards the elevators. The doors close and Steve is left with Tony Stark.

“I guess I’ll show you to your rooms,” Tony says, “Don’t have much luggage, do ya?”

“Side effect of the crashed plane, I suppose.”

“Is that the shield?” Tony nods towards the only bag Steve is holding.

“Sure is. The only thing that survived.”

He follows Tony down a hallway.

“Well, here it is.” Tony gestures to an open door ignoring Steve’s last remark, “Your place.”

Steve moves to sit on the bed and notices Tony waiting in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

“I hope it’s not too soft for you,” Tony replies, quieter than he’s been.

He leaves before Steve can reply.

Later, the wall stares back with muted tones. Steve can’t bring himself to move. There isn’t a lot he can do anyway. His hair is still dripping from the shower. Steve had been engrossed by the setting that pours gentle rain far longer than any other shower he’d had. The lavender scent of the gels and soaps wafted through the room. It is surprisingly calming.

Eventually, he lies back onto the bed and closes his eyes, hoping for a welcoming sleep.

 

~

 

The alarm chimes gently from the bedroom ceiling. Steve hears it from the living room where he spent most of his night. He doesn’t react, knowing that once the sensors realize he’s not there, they’ll switch off.

It’s been five days since he’s been in New York and every second alienates him more than the last.

Tony is busy most of the day so Steve barely sees him at all.

“I don’t wish to alarm you, but I caught sight of this article circling the Internet.”

Steve also wasn’t used to Tony’s AI, JARVIS, just yet.

“It seems that someone has caught sight of you.”

A hologram of the article appears on the wall. It shows a blurry photo of Steve, the red and blue of his shield merging in with the snow.

“Is it clear enough for people to know?” Steve frowns.

“It is unclear, though speculations have already been formed.”

“From one blurry photograph?”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century.” Tony chimes in.

Steve turns at the sound of his voice.

“I informed Mr Stark of this as well,” JARVIS says.  

“Shouldn’t be anything to worry about, the world will know about you when you’re ready,” Tony supplies.

“I highly doubt that.”

Tony turns in a circle and lifts his arms, palms up in frustration when he faces Steve again. ”Look if you’re concerned, I can get Fury to cover it up. SHIELD is good at that.”  

“No,” Steve glances down. “It isn’t important.”

“Alright.”

Steve looks back to the city below. He hears Tony walk out of the room with gentle footsteps. The lights reflect off of the rain washed ground. Though it’s early, countless cars speed through the streets. Early commuters hurry along the sidewalks, most without umbrellas.    

He isn’t ready to be among them yet, but their ignorance towards the problems that lie above them is inviting.

Steve inadvertently thinks of all the times he walked down that street and all the other streets in the city. Every moment that belongs to him and every day that was spent uniquely from everyone else. And the days that the people in the city now will connect to only through the pages of a book.

Through the good and bad of all of them, was Bucky. Two kids taking on the world, way before the war took them in with its calloused hands.

But there was a time before he knew Bucky, a time when Steve was alone, just as he is now.

It doesn’t make sense, but his mind travels elsewhere. To the med bay in Russia where he’d woken up. To the man who was there. Steve still can’t piece together what he looks like.

 

_“I’m the only one who’ll get what you feel.”_

 

The voice beckons him back home, to 1930, before everything changed. It doesn’t make sense, but his chest swells with something comforting and unbalancing at once.

Steve doesn’t even know when he’d heard the words, why he remembers now. They circle round and round in his head on a loop. When they aren’t in the forefront of his mind, they continue in the back, a never-ending song.

It lasts for a full six days before he can’t take it any longer.  

Agent Romanoff arrives on the fourth. She finds him on the roof as evening was coming to a close.

“Not bored yet, are you?” she says when she comes up behind Steve.

“Agent Romanoff, what a lovely surprise,” he replies as he turns away from the city.

“Well, as it’s my day off, it’s Natasha.”

Steve hums once as Natasha sits on the other end of the ledge.

“What is it?” She crosses her legs and leans back onto the wall. “You look even more troubled than I last saw you.”

“Nothing.” He replies to quickly and he knows she picked it up.

He sighs deeply and starts again.

“I was brought up on the belief that I wasn’t supposed to fit in anywhere, that my place in the world was along its edges.”

“You don’t seem like someone who opens up often.”

“I don’t,” she says simply, “but you look as lost as I did.”

“How did you find yourself?”

“I think, in a way, I still am. But you find something to ground you, if it can’t be yourself at first, then something else.” She blinks up and smiles warmly. “And eventually, you’ll feel settled enough to be able to do it on your own.”

A silence ripples over them. Steve glances back out to the ridged skyline not exactly taking any of it in.

He remembers the soft touch as he lay in a bed, thousands of miles away. The blurry voice whose tone was etched with concern.

The single note placed delicately on his shield, the letters distancing himself from the room he stood.

“I think I know a way,” Steve replies finally.

“Something tells me you didn’t think of that on the spot.” She gives a sideways smirk.

Steve huffs a silent laugh. “No, I didn’t.”

Natasha doesn’t push and the muffled noise of the streets below fill the space. She moves her legs so they dangle freely over the edge.

He finds Tony hunched over a screen, coffee in hand when Steve finally approaches him a few days after.

“I’m ready.”

Tony looks up from the screen. “Just like that? What changed?”

“I have a statement to make.”

“I’ll arrange a press conference. I’ll have to announce you’re alive first, though.”

“Do what you need.”

 

~

 

**April 29, 2011, 8:57 am.**

“Pepper wrote some cards for you. Try to stick to them,” Natasha hands over a stack of cards, “they can’t know I was in Russia.”

She sighs and straightens out his jacket.

“Thanks.”

**8:58 am**

“You’re gonna do fine, Cap. Everyone already loves ya,” Tony chimes in. He’s standing just off to the side.

“I’m not entirely sure about that,” Steve quips to relieve the tension. It doesn’t work.

“Don’t shoot me down, Rogers. That was my best attempt at comfort.”

“Well, in that case, thank you for the attempt.”

**8:59 am**

Steve turns, prompt cards in hand, and pushes open the double doors to the conference room. It’s packed, every available seat is taken, and a few reporters have taken to the floor.

The flash of cameras is instant. Steve navigates through the mass of cameras to the podium.

“Come on! You’ll get enough shots when he’s up there,” he hears Tony shout.

**9:00 am**

Steve stands, facing the room of expectant people. All eyes, cameras, and microphones are focused on him.

He moves the cards into his line of vision and pauses. After a moment too long his slides them into his pocket.

“There isn’t a lot for me to say that isn’t already apparent with me standing here in front of you. Yes, I’m alive and I know as much as you do how that happened. But the real mystery that I care about is how I was saved.”

He looks out to the sea of reporters hanging onto every word.

“There was someone who dragged me out of that plane. If he had not done so, I would have been left to sleep for many more years to come and  who’s to say I would have been found at all? So this message is for him.”

He frowns and looks down briefly before he addresses the crowd again.

“If you’re out there, watching this, I heard what you said and,” he breathes, “if it means anything to you, I’ll be waiting.”

There’s a brief silence as the words settle on top of the microphones and Steve heaves a breath in that time.

The reporters clamour for their questions to be heard, the voices becoming louder as they bounce off of each other.

 

~

 

The news trends online, quickly becoming the number one topic of discussion.

Steve waits.

 

~

 

There’s a letter waiting for him when he gets back from the gym with Natasha.

 

_Steve,_

_I got your message—pretty hard to miss with you being Captain America and all. I can’t come and see you, not yet, and to be honest, I don’t know if I ever can._

_You have done more for me than you know and, because of that, I don’t want to taint your life with the things I’ve done. I’m not worth the risk._

_I’m sorry I can’t do more for you._

 

There’s no return address. Steve folds the paper carefully.

Natasha, who’s standing behind him, leans over his shoulder. “A response?”

He hands the letter over silently.

“Can I ask you something?” she says eventually, sliding up onto the counter. “Why is it so important to find him? It seems to be about more than just thanking him.”

Steve shrugs, non-committal. “It’s just something he said. It’s not important really.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No, it’s okay, it was worth a shot.”

“You’re good at getting out of answering.” There’s a pause. “Do you like ice cream?”

He gives a mock-offended look. “Of course.”

“Then get up,” she gestures. “I know where the best ice cream place in New York is.”

“You gonna let me change outta these clothes first?”

“I suppose.”

Steve realizes how much he’s missed fresh air when he steps out of the building. Spring has begun to take over and so it’s been mainly sunny. A soft breeze reminds him it isn’t summer just yet.

Natasha takes them closer to the city centre, navigating the route with ease. The pace they take is more like a stroll, allowing Steve to take everything in at a more comfortable speed.

She side-eyes him a lot. The subtlety is lost with how close they are standing. Steve isn’t put off by it, knowing it’s more out of concern than anything else.

They come to a small stand on the edge of a street. Natasha smiles to the owner as he waves toward her.

She leans into Steve gently. “You’re safe to choose any flavour, they’re all good.”

“They look it,” he agrees.

Steve orders the mango, while Natasha chooses the mint chocolate.

Natasha finds them a bench to sit on. “This is one of my favourite places to people watch.”

“Is that part of the job description too?”

“It helps,” she replies simply.

Steve faces forward, watching the passers-by in motion. He admits, it is fascinating to try to picture their lives beyond this moment. He usually did it with the purpose of sketching. It had never occurred to him how the activity would benefit a spy.

A lot more people make eye contact than they ever did when he sketched. Their glances are quick and jarring, looking away just as quickly as if they’d been caught in the act of doing something wrong.

“Do you usually get this much attention?”

“No,” she huffs, “I’m usually much more invisible.”

“Sorry.”

“No need. I’m the one who invited you, remember? It’s just, the spotlight rarely paints me in a good light.”   

“I never quite got used to it either.”

“Surprising.”

He nods with a silent laugh. “It is to most.”

Steve is finding it hard to decide how he feels with how people react around him. It’s certainly different from how it was as Captain America in the wartime. Although there are similar tones underlying, he feels like a ghost in this century.

He goes back to focusing on the ice cream, how the flavour of the mango seeps into his tongue.

“How is it?” She nods as if reading his mind.

“The best I’ve tasted in sixty-five years.”

“That good?” She raises her eyebrows, a look of amusement shadowed across her face.  

 

~

 

Steve manages to get into a routine. Now that he’s had a reply, he’s able to start building something with his new life. Most days he doesn’t see the point of it, because it just allows each day to become indistinguishable from another. But it at least gives him a reason other than eating to get out of bed.

That and the long list of media engagements Tony had lined up for him.

“So,” the reporter continues. Steve’s mind had wandered several questions before and even now he struggles to bring it back to the interview. “We’re all dying to hear any developments from your announcement.”

The audience cheers from the stands and it jolts him into focus. “I’m sorry?”

“Your declaration on wishing to find the man who saved you,” she clarifies, her smile falters slightly.

“Oh, of course.” Steve’s energy is draining fast. He widens his smile anyway. “I did receive a letter. Unfortunately it’s probably the last.”

A collective protest fills the stands.

“Sometimes things don’t work out the way we hope, but I was lucky enough to get closure and I’m still grateful to whoever it is out there who pulled me out of that wreckage.”

It’s only partly a lie.

Steve’s media agent, Adrienne, meets him at the door straight after the interview and starts a spiel that he unintentionally tunes out. A long line of people are at the ready on the other side of the barriers. Steve pauses when he notices the posters and memorabilia with his face.

“We’re right on schedule for the shoot with Time I don’t think traffic should be—” She stops a few paces ahead. “Mr Rogers I really think we should get going, we really shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“I’m sure they can manage.”

A wave of laughter spreads through the line. He heads to the edge and many of them thrust pens into his face. Steve obliges. Most of them are replicas, the paper too new to have lasted so long. He signs as many as he can reach, going deeper into a haze the more he sees.

“Captain!”

Steve follows the voice to a young man just behind the first row of people. He notices that Steve made eye contact and continues.

“I have something, from my grandfather’s collection.”

Steve moves towards him and he hands over a sketchbook. It’s old and weathered but Steve recognizes it immediately, it’s his.

He stares at it for a beat too long.

“My grandfather was a collector of historic items and he always loved art. He got hold of this a while back.” The man stares down it absentmindedly. “I just think you should have it, now that you’re back and all.”

Steve looks up at the man, a look too intense, he knows. “Thank you, it means a lot that you would give it back.”

He extends his hand over the barrier and the man takes it, a slight awe within his eyes.

Steve takes a step back just as Adrienne comes to his side. “The car is waiting round the side, Captain.”

He nods distractedly. His fingers leave indents in the leather as he grips the book. Steve doesn’t remember most of the drive to his next appointment.

He moves a hand across the cover before finally being able to open it. The scrawl of his handwriting is the last reminder he needs.

 

_Property of Steve G. Rogers_

_Class 4B_

 

It wasn’t really one of his class sketchbooks, but he liked the feeling of knowing he went to art school so he included it in every one.

Most of the pages are filled with Bucky. The sight of the sketches make his chest tighten that he forces himself to exhale.

He remembers one that he drew just after a particularly bad fever. It was the first time he could sit up in bed without sending his head reeling. Bucky had insisted that Steve needed a bath and Steve had waved him away. He didn’t smell _that_ bad.

“You’re worse than Ma,” he’d said.

“And if it works, I’ll keep at it pal.”

It worked. Steve sat in the bath, his undergarments slowly sticking to his skin. He let Bucky fill it with water who grabs the soap from the side of the sink.

“I can wash my own damn hair,” Steve snaps.

“And yet it aches to move your arms. It doesn’t add up, Rogers.”

“You’re the one that insisted I get up,” he mumbles.

He begrudgingly lets Bucky wash his hair, and Steve will never admit how good it feels.

The car squeals to a stop and the page is just a sketch again. Steve flips through the rest of the book.

The last page is Bucky in his military uniform, a cocky smile slapped on his face. Steve can see the colour of his eyes even with the picture being charcoal.

The car arrives too quickly at the next building and Steve is pulled into caring about the present again.

He keeps the sketchbook on him, not willing to part with it any time soon.

The door opens and Adrienne is waiting on the other side, a folder in hand.

Steve steps onto the new street and shields his eyes from the harsh change in light. They are guided up the elevator and through a set of doors to reveal a completely white room. An array of lighting equipment has already been set up.

When he is deemed ready for the camera, the photographer comes over to the table. He beams widely while holding up a Captain America suit.

Steve takes it into the change room and lets it hang on the hook. It’s a good duplicate physically, but it’s way too clean, making it obviously more of a costume.

He somewhat crashes into the chair, a pounding in his chest increasing with each beat. A restlessness seeps into his limbs. It’s insistent. It aches like a punch.

Steve swallows the feeling down like medicine.

Finally he slips the suit on, the feeling having grounded itself in his gut. The man who stares back in the mirror is who everyone sees; what everyone _always_ sees.

Eventually Steve steps back to where the cameras are staged. The photographer guides him into the middle and leaves the spotlights trained above him.

 

_Ahead is the smallest crowd he’s had to date. Their war-torn faces stare accusingly. The pristine white floor is replaced by a relentless layer of mud. It coats everything.  The green uniforms are splattered at the boots._

 

A single white flash from the central camera illuminates the entire backdrop behind him. Steve feels the light against his cheeks. He lets himself be tugged in different directions and poses.  

 

_The girls behind him dance with ease while he stands in the front, his limbs still awkward and uncomfortable. A silence meets him like a wall. The speakers echo as one last taunt._

 

They hand him a shield much like his original one. The crude paint deliberate. It’s switched with a current model when those photos are done. The contrast between them is staggering.  

 

_“And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know.”_

 

The whole shoot lasts two hours. Steve actually sighs with relief when he shrugs off the suit. He takes longer than he needs to while leaving the changing room.  

“Ah! Captain Rogers,” the photographer calls. “I can’t say how honoured I am to be able to have you in a shoot.”

He flounders slightly. “I mean, I grew up on the stories.”

“I appreciate it.” Steve smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He tucks the sketchbook under his arm and makes towards the exit.

For the first time since waking, he feels utterly exhausted. Steve flops onto the bed, still clutching the sketchbook once more. The ghosts spill out one by one. He finds comfort in them despite the hurt that stretches across his chest.

On one page, Bucky smiles to someone in the distance and Steve just wants to call his name, to be able to look at him properly again. But this is one moment, captured on a single page, that is so incredibly vulnerable to even the slightest smudge. He’s at Steve’s fingerprints, but so out of reach.   

Steve starts to tell his ghosts about the day.

 

~

 

Steve manages to get out most days, whether it be with Natasha or on his own. Tony comes by now and then, and Fury checks in with him once in a while. He’s almost completely forgotten his time in Russia…almost. It still drifts by in the background. In the moments he isn’t thinking of anything, it’ll slip into the forefront of his mind. He won’t even realize he’s thinking of it.

He gets a letter under his door one morning. It’s another with no return address.

 

_Is that the best you can do?_

_It’s gonna take more than that to change my mind ;)_

 

Steve just smiles to himself. He thinks about where the man would have written it. How long after the interview before he decided to write.

Steve makes it to his and Natasha’s usual appointment in the sparring gym and she notices it way off.

“What is it?” she asks, already coming at him with a grab.

Steve twists out of it before she can get any leverage. She uses the momentum to push him back and gets the back of his legs.

He moves into a roll and is back on his feet in the same motion.

“Nothing, really.”

“Is that really how you’re treating me when I’ve been so open with you,” she quips. “I don’t do that with everyone, you know.”

She gets him in the stomach. Steve is able to grab her wrist and get her in a hold.

Natasha backs them both into a wall and moves her free arm into Steve’s chin. She twists to the side and makes her next move. Steve jabs her in the side before it lands.

“I got another letter,” he replies.

She takes out her batons and they both snap together at her side. “Really? After a month?”

“Seems like it.”

She smirks and squints her eyes ever so slightly.

“What’d it say?”

“Now, I’m afraid that’s pushing it too far,” he says in jest.

She throws her left baton up and Steve blocks it just in time for her to swing the right one. They move back and forth without effort. It becomes more of a smooth dance of anticipation.

“Not bad, Rogers.”  

When Natasha’s away on a mission, Steve fills the gap in his schedule with running. At first, he starts on a treadmill, brought in by Tony, but he soon gets bored with the lack of stimulus.

He runs laps of central park when it still mostly belongs to the trees. The sun creeps in through the branches, filling the open space with a brilliant light.

When more people start piling in, he knows it’s time to leave. He makes his way back to the tower at a much slower pace, enjoying the slight peace of the earlier crowd.    

 _“_ Captain Rogers, this came for you urgently.”

Steve takes the envelope and already knows what’s inside.

 _“_ Thank you,” Steve replies distractedly.

He waits until he’s upstairs to open it and doesn’t notice Natasha sitting on the sofa until it rustles as she stands.

 

_I couldn’t leave without closure._

_140 Essex St._

_See ya there._

 

“Not even a hello?” She teases.

Steve lowers the letter and smiles sideways. “How’d it go?”

She lets out a breath dramatically. “I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance for that answer.”

She gives satisfied grin. “But it went well. What’s he want this time?”

Natasha nods towards the letter.

“To meet,” he replies.

“There’s something off, Steve,” she says once she’s read it.

“Yeah, getting that too.” He still stares at the newest letter. “This address in New York?”

“The street does ring a bell.”

“I have to go.”

Natasha’s face remains neutral. “Why? What do you owe to a stranger?”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a while.

She sighs, frowning slightly to herself. She looks distractedly out the nearest window.

“At least take the shield will you?”

“For a civilian?”

“You don’t know that.”

“Ah, come on, Nat. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“What was the guy doing in the Arctic in the first place? Have you stopped to consider how strange that is?”

He hadn’t. He had only awoken in Russia, no recollection of how he had moved from a crashed ship in the ice.

The address on the letter takes him to outside of a disused subway station. It’s a fair few blocks away from the tower which offers time for many commuters to give strange looks at the shield.

Steve peers through the scratched up glass. It’s dark inside he can’t see any visible of source other than the daylight streaming down.

He pulls at the door. The hinges are stiff, but it creaks open. A single bulb flickers to life and he sees a downward leading staircase in the corner.

With no other detectable path, Steve takes the stairs. It leads to what used to be the railway tracks. He walks alongside them until he reaches a tunnel.

Steve steps down onto the tracks and sticks to the edge. He doesn’t have to walk for long until he gets to a small platform and a door. It looks to have been replaced by a more heavy duty one, more difficult to open. Steve would even go as far to say military grade.

Once he’s nearer, Steve notices the second strange thing about it. Not only is it unlocked, its cracked open ever so slightly.

He walks down a long hallway on the other side all the way to the door at the end. There’s a small window onlooking a room. Steve can see a thick set of bars immediately after the door. They open one after the other and Steve realizes why his entrance had been easy.  

At the end of the room stands a man in a uniform with a SHIELD insignia on it. Next to him is large, metal chair in which another man sits. His gear is different, thicker. There’s nothing to distinguish what organization he is with on his clothes. The gear isn’t really what catches Steve eye though. His arm is metal, a red star painted on his shoulder—it glints off of the fluorescent lights above.

The agent grabs something from beside him and  Steve realizes it’s a mask. That’s when Steve’s memory clicks into place. Steve had started to question the truth of the man in the mask. He thought his mind had replaced what he couldn’t remember with a void, that it filled the blank with what it could.

He can tell the agent is revelling in the spectacle.

But then he remembers even further back, remembers the snow. The agent had a metal arm. It had been just about the only thing he could distinguish in the complete blizzard. It reflected off the fresh snow even in the night.   

Steve moves forward with caution. He stops a few steps away when the second wave of reality hits him like a wall. It’s a reality he doesn’t quite believe is true, even while staring it in the face. The ghosts of his sketchbooks had found their way out to greet him face to face.       

“Bucky?”

It’s then that Steve notices the restraints locked around his limbs.

“He isn’t who you know, Captain,” the agent beside replies. “That man is gone, he died on a train in 1943.”

Steve recovers from the sudden block in his throat. “Yeah? Well, I died in a plane crash. It seems that neither of us are where we’re supposed to be."

Steve glares accusingly.  

“What have you done with him?” He moves towards the chair.

“Take one more step and you’ll be too dead to hear the answer.”

He stays put, knowing that if he’s dead, he’ll be trapping Bucky indefinitely. Steve isn’t about to fail him twice.

“Would you like to see?” He picks up a red book from the table.

“No.”

“After you left him to die at the bottom of a mountain, our agents managed to bring what was left back to life and build something better.”

The agent smiles to himself. “The perfect weapon."

“But you’re SHIELD?”

“Only on the outside.”

The agent flips open the book and starts reading.

“LONGING.”

The effect is immediate. Bucky’s whole body goes rigid, his limbs taut as both fists clench tightly.

It hits Steve just how powerful words can be.

“The day you got your orders,” Steve counters the agent. ”107th. Sergeant James Barnes shipping out to England. We both pretended it wasn’t happening.”

“RUSTED.”

“I was hounding you about not having a watch. You found one in a used store. It was almost too big for my wrist.”

Bucky tilts his head back. It twitches to the side.  

“SEVENTEEN.”

“This first year,” Steve takes a breath, “the first year I truly realized how in love I was—”

His long hair falls over his face and Bucky peers up through the strands. There’s sixty years of sorrow sunken beneath his eyes. The green is just as vivid.

“DAYBREAK.” The agent is almost shouting now.

Bucky lets out a guttural scream.  

“It was your turn to take watch, I couldn’t sleep about halfway through. We watched the sunrise side by side.”

“FURNACE.”

“After one of the times I almost died on ya, you insisted we needed something warmer than the blankets. I said you would be enough.”

“NINE.”

“You didn’t want me to enlist, but it didn’t stop you from helping anyway. You’d pull me out of bed in the early hours of the morning to make it to the gym at opening time. You even let me use your old gloves.” Steve grins slightly.  

“BENIGN.”

“I’d always say there wasn’t any harm, that we wouldn’t get into trouble. Truth is, you’re the reason we didn’t get caught.”

“HOMECOMING.”

“You pulled us out of every back alley fight I got into and I couldn’t do the same for you. Your sisters and ma never got to see you come home and that’s something that will sit with me as long as I live.”

Bucky is still now. The steady breathing was the only movement.

“ONE.”

Steve smiles at how easy that one is.

“At the end of it all, you’re the only one who knows me. After everything, it all comes back to you. You brought me back, the one who risked it all, even before the ice.”

“FREIGHT CAR.”

“We missed the bus, happened more than once, but it didn’t matter, I was with you. You hopped on the back of a supply truck, pulled me up with ya like it was nothing.”

He smiles away the guilt with a thin line.

The agent closes the book, ignoring Steve, and turns to Bucky. “Soldier?”

Bucky’s expression, his whole posture, is an empty palette. He stares ahead, the rigidity hidden behind the neutral gaze.  

“Ready to comply.” Bucky breathes, his voice laced with a quiet strain.

It’s only now that the agent fastens the mask around Bucky’s mouth. The agent hands him a knife, a satisfied smirk on his face. Bucky takes it in one hand and twists it down. His knuckles are almost white.

Steve takes a step back. The reluctance for what’s about to happen drills into his soul.

The agent moves backwards and slides shut the bars that served as a door. He turns the lock. “I’ll be waiting on the other side. You know what happens if you should fail.”  

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him, but the message has definitely been understood.

There’s a pause while they adjust to them being alone. Steve can here Bucky’s ragged breaths already.

“Buck,” Steve says quietly. “You know what’s about to happen, you don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” Bucky barrels into his chest. Steve just lets him.

Steve smacks into the floor. He pushes his shield up with a grunt and Bucky falls to the side. They’re both up at once. Steve throws a punch and it’s swiftly blocked.

Steve aims the shield at his head and Bucky grabs it with both arms. He spins so it slips out of Bucky’s grip. On the rebound, Steve makes contact into his shoulder.   

A knife comes at his neck and Steve only just dodges it. He moves into the next slash. It catches his arm. Steve hisses at the sting just as he feels another gash in his side. The knife clatters to the ground as Steve twists it out of Bucky’s grip. He swings the shield into Bucky’s other arm.

The clatter of metal ricochets in the small space.  

“You’ve got me.” Steve says as the room quells the ripple into a whisper. “You win.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate and grunts as he yanks at the shield. He hurls it into the wall. It stays in place.

Steve takes three consecutive hits into the stomach. The last one sends him flying across the floor. He stumbles up onto a knee, his head hanging low. He closes his eyes, content.

He doesn’t see the hit across his face, just feels the crunch on his cheek.

For the first time, Steve notices the feeling of the cool stone of the floor pressed up against his back.  

He looks up as Bucky traps him there. Steve sighs and smiles thinly. Bucky pulls out another knife and holds it toward Steve’s neck. Everything is still.

“It’s okay,” Steve says softly.

“No, it _isn’t._ ” His voice is strained. “You’ve made a rift in my head and it’s let out _everything_. I don’t know who you are. I’ve read all there is but beyond words? It’s nothing. I don’t feel anything.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t feel what I’m supposed to. I don’t know what they mean.” He hisses.

Steve searches Bucky’s eyes. They’re frantic and laced with sorrow and they drill right into Steve’s.

“It means you’re the man who pulled me from a wrecked plane and brought me back to life. It means you are Bucky Barnes, a damn brave soldier who fought through everything I pulled you into and, most of all, it means you are my best friend, who was there when I had nothing.”

He swallows to relieve the pressure from the knife.

“And beyond that? You’re whoever the hell you want to be.” Steve almost chokes on his next words. “If that means going on without me then so be it, consider me gone. But I’m here, I always will be, just like you were with me, cause I’m with you till the end of the line.”

 

_Nine words that haul the past close, the present splitting before his eyes._

 

Steve wraps his hand gently, steadily round Bucky’s, which is tightly gripping the knife.

Bucky’s face betrays him. He clenches his jaw to pull it back in line. Steve watches patiently, Bucky’s hand is wavering now. His eyes dart back and forth across Steve’s face.

“Do you trust me?” Steve asks.

Bucky stays frozen. There’s worry sunken into his eyes as they land on Steve. A bewilderment that goes against everything in his posture. Steve recognizes the horror-stricken look from the war, knows it too well. It seems more heightened, like he’s holding in a scream. He can feel Bucky’s breathing becoming more panicked.

“No,” Bucky almost growls.      

Steve tries not to let his heart sink even further.

The pressure from the knife releases slightly. Bucky hasn’t shifted Steve’s hand away. He moves the knife to his other hand and slowly backs it away from Steve’s neck. Steve gasps from the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Steve doesn’t dare break his gaze away. Without moving so much as his arm, Bucky flicks the knife backwards in one swift motion. There’s a grunt as it lands in the returning agent. Steve hadn’t heard him approach. The agent grabs at the bars as his legs buckle from beneath him.

“Get up,” Bucky says to Steve.

He rolls to his side, stifling a grunt, and pushes up to his feet. Steve feels a thin cut on the side of his neck.  

Bucky comes to his side and pulls him into the chair. “You’re going to bleed out, lift up your shirt.”

Steve does what he’s told.

Bucky patches him up, his hands are sure, but they move gently, tenderly. He flicks his eyes up when Steve hisses when the bandage presses onto the wound.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says eventually.

Steve stands up, but walks to the other side of the room. He tugs at the shield, still jammed into the wall; it releases in one firm motion.

Bucky glances at it warily, but doesn’t say anything as he steps over the slumped agent.  

The agent grabs at Bucky’s leg, who merely kicks it away.

“The punishment that’s waiting for you,” the agent rasps, “will make you wish you never remembered him.”

 

_Benign commands hone in, but slip by like thoughts out of his grasp, just as his own memories once were._

 

Bucky crouches down and wraps a hand around the knife. He slowly twists the blade out of the agent’s chest and Steve instantly sees the blood pool faster.

“Enjoy your last painful moments.”

Bucky continues walking and Steve steps over the agent watching the life slowly drain out his skin. Steve turns forward again.

“Every HYDRA agent is waiting for you. They’re not going to let the asset—“

A shot rings out as Bucky turns on the spot and shoots around Steve. It lands right in the agent’s head.

“You don’t get a say in that anymore,” he grumbles while facing ahead again.  

Steve doesn’t hear the increased rate in breathing, but he watches as Bucky’s shoulders rise and fall unevenly. He moves in to step side by side and places a hesitant hand on the back of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky doesn’t pull away.

“You okay?” Steve glances sideways, Bucky stares ahead. “He was more than just an agent, right?”

“One of my handlers,” he clenches his jaw and swallows.  

He changes the subject before Steve can come up with a reply.

“We need to get ahold of my files.”

Steve lets his hand drop. “What for?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just gives him a complicated look; almost empty and undoubtedly dejected.

“Alright, where are they?” Steve diverts the question.

Bucky still pauses, but eventually gives a reply. “The lowest level, but it’s not like they let me know the code.”

“So we find someone who will.”

An alarm blares out into the corridor and it makes them both freeze. At that moment, all the lights turn red. Steve’s eyes adjust without a problem.

Bucky gestures to move closer to the wall. Steve follows, his shield held high. They make it to the corridor with an elevator that would take them to the lower level without meeting a single agent. Turns out, they were all waiting in front of it.

As Steve follows Bucky round the corner of the final hallway, a door slams down from the ceiling, trapping them all in the narrow space.

“Will he know?” Steve nods towards the agent in front.

“Yeah, he’ll have it.”

All six agents converge. They try to surround the two of them. Bucky reaches out with his left arm and grabs the nearest agent. He throws him against the farthest wall.

Steve’s punches come out less controlled than he’d been trained. The emotion travels to the surface and he channels everything into his fist.

There’s an unspoken agreement of leaving the lead agent until last and they both dodge his attacks. Less than a minute passes before the rest of his team lay around him on the ground.

Steve knocks the gun out of the approaching agent’s grip. He drags him by the shoulder and shoves his back against the wall. In a quick motion, he reaches for the cyanide pill and twists it out of the agent’s mouth.

“Just like old times with you two, then?”

Steve doesn’t realize Bucky has moved closer. He hears the click of a gun as Bucky presses it against the agent’s temple.

“Shut up!” Bucky snaps.

The agent doesn’t react. “Got ya both now though, don’t we? Just imagine, Captain America turning out to be HYDRA. How do you think the world will react?”  

The plan slowly makes more sense.

“They won’t buy it.”

“No? The world is much more malleable now. A couple of photos, a few leaked files.” He smirks. “All it takes.”

Steve pushes his forearm further into his neck. “What’s the code to the safe?”

“Oh I see,” he makes a face of mock sadness,“you want the asset’s files so he doesn’t die from the withdrawals.”

Steve punches him in the face.

Blood spurts across the agent’s uniform and that's when Steve first looks properly at the symbol. It’s SHIELD’s. Above it reads STRIKE and written below is Rumlow. Steve flicks his gaze up again and stares at the swelling face.

He keeps his voice as level as possible. “I don’t think you did your homework. See, you brought me here, to what? Trap me, taunt me? But there’s one great big flaw in your trap,” he moves closer into the Rumlow’s space, “because you brought him into it.”

He briefly glances over to Bucky. Steve meets his wild and waiting eyes peering through the mask. God, Steve wants to tear that thing off his face. He grinds his jaw and turns back to Rumlow, now dangling helplessly off the ground.

“And you should know, agent, I’ll tear this universe apart to keep him safe. You took _both_ our lives away and I’m taking them back.”

It’s the first time Rumlow looks anything other than confident.

Steve lets out a shaky breath. “So I’ll ask you again, what’s the code?”

“It ain’t a code, it’s a key and one neither of you will find.”

“He means bio-coded,” Bucky says. “We need his fingerprint, maybe retinal scan.”

A flash of recognition crosses Rumlow’s face.

Steve guesses it will be a similar system to the ones in the tower. He hadn’t realized how common they would be.

Bucky nudges him over and pulls at Rumlow’s arm. He slips out a blade stored on his leg. That’s when Rumlow squirms and Steve clues into what’s about to happen.

“Which finger?” Bucky asks calmly.

When he doesn’t reply, Bucky adds. “I’m gonna have to try every finger if you can’t give me an answer.”

That’s when Steve steps in. “We should take him down, there might be something he’s keeping from us."  

“That’s risky.”

“Well, if he tries anything,” Steve glowers at Rumlow, “we’ll just kill him.”

“You’re scary when you’re mad.”

“You don’t get angry?”

“The rage of an assassin isn’t anything special, the rage of a good man is the one to be wary of.”

Steve meets his eyes. They aren’t nervous or wary.

“May I?” Steve gestures to the mask, still strapped across his mouth.

Bucky gives a single slow nod. His head hardly moves. Steve reaches round the back of his head and feels for the straps, keeping eye contact the whole time.

Steve feels Bucky’s hand against his, grabbing at the mask. Steve lets him take it and watches as he tears it up. Bucky dumps it unceremoniously on the ground.  

“Touching,” Rumlow interrupts.

Bucky turns silently and lands the metal fist into his nose.

“Just make sure we have at least one eye intact,” Steve says as Bucky turns forward again.

He calls the lift and, when it arrives, shoves Rumlow inside.

Bucky selects the lowest level and the doors slide shut. The lift whines as it takes them deeper into the ground.

The tension builds to an insurmountable level as if it’s an overspilling pool.

Eventually they exit onto an almost abandoned-looking floor.

“Where is everybody?”

“This floor is restricted. It hasn’t been touched since the sixties,” Rumlow replies. “It’s for emergencies dealing with the asset only.”

Rumlow reaches for the light switch and there’s a pause before they come to life. He leads round a corner, Bucky’s gun pressed into his spine.

They come face to face with a line of armed agents. Rumlow twists out of the way and turns so he faces away from the new team.

“You really think we would let you take our most valuable files?”

“I kinda thought you’d care more about saving your own ass.”

“I care about the survival of HYDRA.” Rumlow sneers. “Keep the asset alive, shoot him if you need to. As for the Captain…” he trails off.

Bucky is already on Steve before the firing starts. The bullets ricochet off his arm, hitting the wall instead. Steve moves so the shield covers them both and Bucky switches his gun into his left hand. He fires two shots. Steve hears them land perfectly.  

Steve leans into him. “Do you know the route outta here?”

Bucky taps a finger to his temple, still aiming around the shield. “It’s in here somewhere.”

He shoots carefully as Steve moves into the crowd.

“Then go, I got this.”

He smashes one agent with the front of his shield. Bucky looks across at him, a faint crease in his brows.  

“They’ll capture you.”

“Better than catching you,” he shoots back. “Seriously, I got this. I’ll meet you outside.”

In one motion, Steve takes a knife out of Bucky’s belt and grabs Rumlow. Steve yanks his arm so he stumbles into the shield and quickly slices off his right thumb.

Rumlow lets out a howl and grasps at his hand. Steve then bends down and makes a thin incision along his neck. Rumlow slumps over helplessly.

Bucky pauses, still reluctant. Steve tries to give him a silent reassurance.    

“I trust you.” Bucky murmurs finally.

Bucky runs in line with the shield’s protection and is out of the room before the other agents can react. Steve’s heart twists into a knot.

Steve grasps Rumlow’s shoulder and pulls him up. He slips the shield on his back then points a gun at the nearest agent.

“Where’s the safe?”

He tries not to grimace from the weight tugging at his wound.

The agent points to the wall at the back. Steve nods and lands a bullet in his skull. He drags Rumlow across the floor until they face the empty wall. Steve runs his hand over it until he feels a groove and presses down. It releases and the wall slides to reveal a scanner. Steve pulls at Rumlow’s hand and places a finger on the screen. His hands are covered in red.

A red light shines out of a spot higher up and Steve moves accordingly to have Rumlow’s eyes meet it.

The safe clicks open and Steve lets Rumlow slump to the floor again. He grunts.

Steve pulls at the hatch so it’s open fully. It swings back slightly from the force.

A thick tan file sits in the middle, Russian words imprinted on the front. He grips it tightly as he flips it to the first page.

He wishes he hadn’t looked.

A single photo greets him on the other side. It’s undoubtedly of Bucky. Even through the bloody scars and the deep bruises, Steve recognizes him.

He doesn’t have the metal yet so Steve is met with the messy stitches on the rest of the arm that remains.  

The guilt sinks deeper into his limbs. He isn’t sure if he'll ever be free of it, isn’t even sure he deserves to be.

The date is from just over three months before he crashed the _Valkyrie._  

The shock almost takes over enough for him to miss the red book still left in the safe, a single black star on the front. He picks it up and doesn’t bother closing the hatch.  

With nowhere to slip them, he hugs both the file and book close and heads back out of the base.

Upstairs, with no one left alive, the alarm still blares unwaveringly.

He makes it outside without any trouble but stops in his tracks when nobody is waiting. The busy streets and the slower pace of everybody in them catches him off guard.

Steve looks among the faces for one that’s familiar, but Bucky isn’t any one of them. He searches the edges of the rooftops before resigning his search.  

It feels strange walking through the streets with the files he has. Like he’s taking a part of Bucky he shouldn’t have.

He makes his way silently up to his floor in the tower, slipping into his room before Natasha can say a word.

She knocks anyway.

“I’m guessing from the fact that you’re alone, it didn’t go well?”

“No need to rub it in.” He smiles but doesn’t make much of an effort to hide the sadness behind it. Natasha would sense it easily enough.   

“What are the files?”

“It was a trap.” He doesn’t want to think about them just yet.

Natasha moves from the doorway and sits tentatively on the edge of the bed, beside him.

“What happened?”

“I got more than I bargained for,” he swallows and glances down, “it was HYDRA.”

If she’s surprised, she hides it well. She looks over at the file where it sits on the other side of Steve.

“The Winter Soldier Project?” Natasha reads.

“You know it?”

“They told us about it when I was in the Red Room. Just as stories, something to scare us as children,” Natasha blinks up from the file,“a ghost story.”

“Did it work?”

“What, the program?”

“Scaring you,” he clarifies.

She raises her eyebrows briefly, glancing away. “I was always more intrigued. Especially as the rumours led to it probably being real.”

Natasha squints her eyes at him, half a smirk on her face. “Why are you interested?”

“The rumours are true,” he replies simply.   

“You trying to catch him?”

Steve puts a hand on the file, his fingers grazing the rough material.

“Save him.”

He changes the subject. “So it is Russian then?”

“Definitely Russian.” She dips her head sideways, arching her eyebrows. “Do you want me to tell you what it means?”

Steve gestures with both arms to go ahead. He pinches the bridge of his nose after rubbing his eyes.

“So, not a stranger…” she trails off after flipping the cover over.

Steve doesn’t reply to that. He doesn’t need to.   

He lets her scan both documents, sitting with one bent and one stretched-out leg, hunched over the pages.

“Okay so it looks as if these are the medical files, and this,” she holds up the red book, “is the manual.”

“The manual?”

“The way to control him.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, as if there’s any way to respond to that.

“We can get JARVIS to render a translation if you don’t want me to read everything out.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He smiles, despite feeling his face is going to splinter if he does for too long.  

Natasha places a gentle hand on his shoulder as she passes and then she’s out of the room.

All he can do is stare ahead until she comes back.

“Rendering complete. You can place the documents a page at a time underneath the reader.” JARVIS’s voice comes through the speakers. “The translation will appear on the screen.”

A thin blue light appears from the lamp on the desk beside him.

The room moves into a different type of silence, one that Steve notices more.

He slides over the tan file first. He takes a moment preparing his stomach before placing it under the light.

Words scroll across the screen almost immediately. Steve stares down at the photo one last time, then forces himself to read.   

The records date back to early 1945. Only a few days after Bucky fell from the train to be exact.

 

~

 

_“He fell hundreds of metres from a moving train, there’s no way he survived.”_

_“Don’t you think we should still try?”_

_“Steve. It’s in enemy territory, you won’t be getting through any time soon.”_

 

_~_

 

He carefully flips through, scanning every sheet. There’s a horror that builds the deeper he goes. He suddenly feels intrusive, as if he was never meant to lay hands on any of the pages.  

Steve slams the document closed and leans back in the chair. He lets it swivel away from the desk. The sketchbook leans up against the pillow he sleeps on. It hadn’t moved since the first night he’d slept with it.

It’s only then that he’s drenched in an overwhelming sense of sorrow. The book taunts him with an emptiness he hasn’t felt since before he met Bucky. The blank pages are a reminder of all the days not lived, instead of ones that can be filled.

Steve sinks deeper into the chair. He lets himself crumble. No point holding it anymore, there isn’t anyone to see it.  

Something releases inside him, but still doesn’t feel any tears. He doesn’t remember what they feel like.

He resigns himself to digging his fingernails into his forearms and turns back to the desk. The marks from his nails remain after he release his grip.

Steve moves the book closer. The black star glints under the new light.   

“JARVIS, can you scan the text for the word ‘withdrawal’?”

“Scanning,” the voice says. There’s a pause. “Several pages contain that word, here is the list.”

“Uh, just show me the first,” Steve replies, not looking up.

He manages to grovel through five pages until he gets the urge to fling the book across the room.

Steve pads gently into the main room and sinks into the chair nearest the window. He doesn’t see Natasha.

He lets his eyes close soaking up the forgiving rays streaming through the glass. The light bares into his eyelids creating a pinkish glow.

A pair of soft stepping footprints enter from the kitchen.    

“Find what you need?”

“Mostly.” Steve opens his eyes. She’s standing right next to him now.

Natasha glances down before looking over at the kitchen. “I made us lunch, if you feel like it.”

“I don’t think my stomach would be too pleased if I declined that offer.”

He pushes out of the chair and follows Natasha over to the dining table. He takes the seat at the very end.

Natasha brings in a tray full of food and sits in the chair opposite.

“Looks amazing,” he says quietly.

“Well, it’s food at least. It’ll do you good.”

Steve has barely touched either of his sandwiches as Natasha finishes her only one.

“The book said withdrawals would kick in within three days.” He takes a gulp of juice. “They could have already started.”

She takes a strawberry and pulls of the stalk. “Yeah, they could have, but if he thought it through, and will have, he’d wait until he was in a secure location.”

“Unless he ran out of the pills.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while and he knows she’s taking everything in, finding a way to proceed.  

“I take it you haven’t told Fury about all this.”

He pushes his plate away finally giving up on eating. “No, and I need it to stay that way.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Natasha says softly. “You know, he could offer resources to find him faster. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Thank you, really.” He meets her gaze. “But he’s hiding for a reason. I don’t wanna draw attention unnecessarily.”       

“I understand. Placing your trust in someone you’ve known for two months is something I’d usually advise against, but I just don’t want you to get there too late.”

“I also understand if you decline, but the Red Room had a similar training program,” she shifts in her seat carefully, “so I could help.”  

“No it’s okay, I don’t want to drag you into this.”

She laughs softly. “You’re not dragging me, I offered.”

He gives a sheepish smile. “Accepting help isn’t my strong suit,” he pauses, “I’d be grateful to have you on my side.”

“Smart move,” she teases.

Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Alright so, his first move would be to get as far away from HYDRA as possible, but still in place where you can survive relatively easy.” She pulls up a screen.

“That’s what I did leaving the KGB anyway,” she adds nonchalantly.  

Steve shifts to stand behind her and places his hands on the table.

“We can track any reported HYDRA activity and start from there."

“Another thing is that he may not have left New York yet.”

“So if we find out where he’s heading we can figure out where he’s going,” Steve realizes.

“Exactly.” She lifts up her fingers over the keyboard. “This could take a while.”

It does. Steve tries not to feel impatient, to notice every second that passes by, more intently than the last.

“This isn’t any use,” she says eventually. “We need a SHIELD database. They have most of HYDRA mapped, plus our tracks will be covered.”  

“How does that work? We’re trying to stay away from SHIELD’s radar.”

“It’ll work,” she insists. “We’ll just need to go somewhere they won’t think to find us.”

“And where’s that?”

 

~

 

The empty fields blur into a mesh of colours. They still have forty minutes left to drive until they reach the coordinates in New Jersey.

Steve focuses on the road. It’s easy to slip into a trance with the emptiness ahead.

Natasha changes her position. She moves her feet from the dashboard and tucks them on the seat instead. She hasn’t said much since they commandeered the car.

The air isn’t tense though, it’s in a waiting state, unsure how to settle around them.

He doesn’t quite believe where they are when Natasha motions for him to turn as they pass the sign marked _Camp Lehigh._

“Of course it’s here.” He doesn’t hide his bafflement.

 _“_ You know it?”

“This is the camp I trained at.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows with a slight exhale and leans back in the seat again. “I suppose it makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “I guess it does."

He parks up and kills the engine. The darkness submerges them. They trek through the old mud, caution in their steps.

Natasha follows her device to a building that’s fairly central.

“This building’s in the wrong place…” he trails off. His attention snags on every changed detail.

“Now we know why.” She lifts up the device still pulsing a single dot on the screen.

Steve manages to break the rusted lock easily and swings the door to reveal more darkness. There’s a loud hum as the room starts to wake up from it’s time lying dormant. The lights are the last to come to life and they’re already wavering. Several rows of desks and office chairs fill the space. Each one has a computer that would seem ancient in current times.

The back wall is what catches his eye, with a significant SHIELD logo drawing him in.

“They’ll do,” Natasha is already heading to a desk. “It will be difficult to track these computers and nobody is expecting one to be used, anyway."

Steve rolls one of the chairs over beside the monitor and watches as Natasha types with a furious speed.

“I’m looking through all of SHIELD’s database for any mention of HYDRA. We’ll know every location soon enough.”

The trail of text sends him until he spots a familiar face.

“Stop.” He leans in closer.

“What did you see?” She scrolls up until he tells her to stop again.

Arnim Zola’s face stares back in the corner of the screen.

“There,” Steve points he reads the text above it. “What’s Project Paperclip?”

“After the war, he was recruited to work with SHIELD instead of being put behind bars.”

“They brought in HYDRA agents?”

“Anyone with strategic value,” she confirms.

He sighs and leans back in his chair.

“Something wrong?” She frowns, glancing in his direction.

“Nothing seems strategic bringing HYDRA to our side.”

“They knew what they were doing.”

Steve can only raise his eyebrows. Natasha turns back to the monitor her mouth slightly twisted.

He doesn’t interrupt again.

“He’s going to try and get to Romania,” Natasha says eventually.

“You’re sure?”

“Almost completely, it’s there or Antarctica. “ She turns her lips up into a smile. “I know which I’d choose.”

Steve doesn’t feel like hanging around any longer so once Natasha has copied all the information, they head back to the car. He sits with the headlights on for a while fixating on what lies ahead.

“So, what now?”

“Finding out what route he’ll take to get out of the country.”

“And if he’s already gone?”

“He won’t have, trust me.”

She sits up a little straighter. “We can get JARVIS running facial recognition on the main exits of the state, see if he finds anything.”

“And he won’t tell Tony? Or Fury?”

“No, not unless we tell him to.”

She peers back at the road before settling her gaze on Steve.

He can feel it in his periphery.

“ _What?_ ” He blinks over at her.

“Just, with everything you’re doing, he must have been something really special back then.”

“He was.” Steve smiles without really thinking.

“I mean, it’s all in the history books, but they’re still just words, I didn’t realize just how true they were.”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure it’s _all_ there.” He tugs his lips to the side, his eyes bright.

She breaks her gaze with a silent laugh and turns forward again, shifting in her seat.

 

~

 

JARVIS doesn’t find anything for six days.

“Are you sure he won’t have missed something?”

“Ninety percent sure,” Natasha replies, still somehow not exasperated with the whole ordeal.

“That’s still ten percent you’re not sure about.”

Steve nods jerkily anyway. The unease in his chest has built since the third day and that now it escapes through a constant restlessness. He had gone to the waterside at the ferry terminal to see if he could spot Bucky himself, but even that had left him with the feeling he was missing an update at the tower.

His sleeping schedule turns unrecognizable and most nights he resigns himself to sketching in the living room. He doesn’t finish many. The hurt of one will force him to turn the page to begin another, a poor attempt at shifting the pain.

Steve must have drifted off in the armchair at some point because he’s startled awake by a faint series of knocks. He stands up, knocking the pencils and open sketchbook off his lap.

He lets the stillness recover from his disruption and listens. Steve can’t hear any movement inside. He starts to notice the muffled hum of electricity he had previously been able to block out.

He drifts round the edges of the room trying to pick apart any human noise.

The knocks come again, just as soft.

They’re coming from the glass, he realizes. Steve treads towards the patio doors and slides them open.    

Bucky’s there, leaning against the door jam, suave as ever. He’s pale. Steve notices beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Hi, I’m Bucky,” he extends his hand, a smile slipping out. “I don’t think we were properly introduced last time.”

Steve matches the smile with one that spans across his face. It’s loose and carefree and it warms his chest to the very core. “Hey, Buck.”

Steve ignores the hand and pulls him into a tight hug, nestling his chin in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t dare move, feeling as though Bucky could slip out of his grasp any second. It isn’t like Steve doesn’t know that it’s real. It’s that a numbness had taken hold so long ago that now it’s breaking apart, the feeling flooding him in one great wave. He fights back a sob.

“You’re really here,” Steve whispers. “ _You’re really here._ ”  

“Right back at ya.”

The softness in his tone sends a trickle of warmth within Steve. He feels Bucky smile into his shoulder.

“You just stand there like a sap?”

“I think I just might.”

Steve slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky leans in comfortably. They only make it a couple of steps in before Bucky slumps forward. Steve only just manages to adjust in time so Bucky doesn’t hit the floor.

Steve grunts quietly as he swings Bucky into his arms. Bucky’s head lolls over Steve’s arm, his limbs slack.   

He doesn’t think, just moves. His feet catch on the floor as he stumbles towards the bedroom. The lights turn on as he kicks open the door. Once he gets near enough, Steve lets him slide out of his arms onto the bed.

Only then does he let the panic seep into his mind.

He places a tentative hand on Bucky’s chest and feels the faint heartbeat through his fingers. Steve grabs the red book and flicks along the pages until he finds the part on withdrawals. From what he reads, Bucky is either just heading into the worst of it or in the tail end of it all. He hopes it’s the latter.  

Steve rests the back of his hand on Bucky’s cheek. The heat radiates through his fingers. He pushes off the bed and grabs a flannel from the bathroom. He soaks it with cool water and wrings out the excess.

Back in the bedroom, Steve gently brushes Bucky’s hair of his face. Steve lets his fingers tangle in it momentarily then places the cloth on Bucky’s forehead.

He lets the room be filled with Bucky’s breaths. Steve finally lets himself collapse back onto the headboard. He’s content with the knowledge that whatever is to taking hold of Bucky now, whatever is come, Steve will be there and he’ll do everything in his power to make it okay.  

“Hey,” Bucky sighs weakly.

“Hey,” Steve places a careful hand on his cheek, “How are you doing?”

Bucky coughs. “Well, I kinda feel I’m going to throw up at any second, but, you’re here so it ain’t all bad.”

“I can grab a bucket if y—“

Bucky flails a bit landing a hand on Steve’s wrist. “No, just stay. Can you stay?”

“Anything you want, Buck.”

He closes his eyes slowly. “I like it when you play with my hair.”

Steve moves his hand back on top of Bucky’s head. “I like that too.”

“Hmm.” Bucky pushes his head more into the pillow.

Steve rakes his fingers through Bucky’s hair and traces them along his scalp.

“Do I need to do anything else?” Steve asks after a while.

“Not doing this alone again is more than enough. We’ve got past the halfway mark now.”

_Again._

Bucky had had to do this before.

“This bed is really comfy.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I’ve just found it to be a bit empty with just one person.”

“Well, you’d better get down here, then.”

Steve shuffles down so he’s pressed up against Bucky. He trails lazy fingers along the edge of Bucky’s arm and nestles his nose into the back of his head.

As Bucky’s breathing evens, Steve slips out temporarily to find a bucket and places it at the edge of the bed. He moves carefully back into the same position without making a disturbance and rests his head just as close.

At some point he drifts off and only wakes again when Bucky convulses in the night. It doesn’t seem to wake Bucky, but he does continue to shiver.

A memory travels aimlessly through his mind. Or rather several memories, all starting with how he lies now. The only difference being of course that Steve was always the one with the fever; cold and hot rupturing through his body at once.  

“Buck?” Steve shakes him gently, “Bucky?”

Bucky jerks awake and throws Steve off while already moving in with a punch. He stops an inch in front of Steve’s nose.

“Sorry,” Bucky says gently, letting his arm drop.

He suddenly doubles over the side of the bed and Steve hears the spasmodic retches.

He leaps off the bed and holds up the bucket which Bucky grips tightly with both hands. Steve kneels in front, watching the jerk of Bucky’s chest as he fights for breaths in between the bouts.

Steve reaches up putting a hand on Bucky’s back, both gentle and steady.

Bucky glances up, he’s worn, but he still grasps at the faint glimmer. Steve sees it rekindling in his eyes.

He spits one last time and leans back on his heels. Steve allows his hand to fall to his side and stands up as Bucky slides back under the covers.

Steve quickly rinses the bucket then fills it up and lets it soak in the bathroom.

This time when he gets in the bed, he lies on his back, on above him under the covers. Bucky moves further in and rests his head on Steve’s chest, curled inwards.

Steve sighs calmly and wraps an arm round Bucky.

The second time he wakes it’s morning.  

He slides carefully out of Bucky’s grip and goes to the door, opening it a crack. He puts a hand on the edge of the door and another on the wall, leaning through the opening.

It’s Nat. She shifts her weight to one side.

“Hey,” she speaks softly. “I heard you get up again last night, everything alright?”

Steve can’t help but smile as he moves to the side and pushes the door open most of the way.

She peers inside and pauses when she sees Bucky, still fast asleep.

“Ah,” she lifts her head up and eyebrows at the same time, “more than alright then.”

“You guys need anything?” She asks.

“We’re good,” he glances back to her, “thank you, Nat.”  

“I’m glad it all worked out.” She touches his shoulder and turns away before he can respond. “I’ll be in the gym if you need me!” she calls.

Steve lets the door click behind him and leans against it.

The evening light only reaches a part of the room and it drenches half of Bucky in a soft sheen.

When Bucky does eventually wake up, he wears a slight grimace, which is more than understandable. He doesn’t take to eating well for another few days, managing keep on his feet long enough to relieve himself and sip down water, before the next wave of nausea hits. Eventually though, he asks to try soup.    

“You sure?” Steve furrows his brow.

“Positive, although I’m not sure if you’ll be able to make it, I don’t want it coming out burnt, you know.”

“Bucky please, it’s just soup, I can make soup!”

“That’s new,” he quips.

Steve heads into the kitchen and does manage to heat through a can of soup without any mishaps. He’s pouring it into a bowl when he hears voices in the next room.

He moves into where the dining table stands to find Bucky and Nat seemingly a tad flustered.

It doesn’t help Bucky’s case that his hair sticks up wildly, some of it plastered to his face.

Steve puts down the bowl.

“You coulda mentioned we had company.” Bucky gives him a look.

“Technically, you’re the company,” Nat replies with a light tone.

“Right, uh Natasha, Bucky.” Steve gestures. “Bucky, Natasha. She found me floundering around the streets of a Russian town.”

“Pleasure,” Bucky says.

“I’m glad he got you back.” She nods.    

“I got you the soup.” Steve turns the attention away from him.

Bucky takes it off the table and instead moves to the sofa. He takes a spot in the corner. Steve follows and plonks down next to him.

Natasha takes her usual spot in a nearby armchair. She takes a mug from the table beside it with both hands and takes a swig.

Steve waits as Bucky tentatively takes the first few mouthfuls of soup.

“Not bad, Rogers. Bland as shit, but that’s all I can take at the moment.”

“It’s from a can,” Steve retorts, “if you have an issue with the flavour, take it up with them.”

Bucky just licks the spoon.

Nat finishes her mug and takes it to the counter. “I gotta meet with Fury, I’ll catch up with you boys later.”

Steve gives a single wave in amidst of her turning.   

Bucky grabs the throw from the top of the sofa and wraps himself up in it. He leaves a corner for Steve.

“I take it you made it out of the in one piece?” Bucky takes Steve’s arm and leans his head at his shoulder.

“It didn’t take long,” Steve replies, taken a back slightly at the sudden acknowledgement of the subject. “Your files and a book are in the bedroom.”

Steve feels Bucky ever so slightly. “Is it a red book?”

“With a black star,” Steve confirms.

Bucky turns away resting his head in the back of his hand.

“Why didn’t you wait?” Steve lets the question hang.

There’s a moment where Bucky looks as if he’s just realized that he’s brought the question on himself.

Bucky holds the spoon mid-air before taking the next sip. He moves the bowl to the table beside him and twirls the spoon before resting both hands in his lap.  

“Wasn’t sure I was worth the risk. You had the chance to rebuild a life here.” Bucky shrugs, “I meant what I said in the letter.”

“You will _always_ be worth the risk, you hear me?”

 

_Homecoming when the words pierce his ears, the promise is heard in slow motion._

 

Steve takes Bucky’s face in both hands and strokes a thumb across his cheek. “God, I almost lost you again.”

 

_One person to say them aloud, recounting from a distant time._

 

Bucky closes the gap between them and presses his lips against Steve’s.

Steve tilts his chin and deepens the kiss. Bucky leans back so he’s pressed all the way into the armrest. Bucky pulls apart to sink down and Steve shadows the movement.  

Steve leans an arm on the edge of the sofa so he’s staring down. He’s met with a smile that matches so many of his sketches.

Bucky reaches up an arm and strokes a finger down Steve’s lips, lingering on the bottom one.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since as far as I know,” Bucky murmurs.

“I’m glad you did. I wasn’t sure you ever wanted it.”

Bucky arches up his neck and kisses him again. Steve lets himself slump so he’s lying right on top of Bucky. They let their arms dangle and Steve links his fingers in Bucky’s, clasping their hands together.

“God I need a shower,” Bucky announces after a sniff, “You put up with this?”

“I don’t notice.” Steve smiles against Bucky’s chest.

“Then something ain’t right with your nose.”

“Come on,” he insists, “You might put up with it but I can’t.”

Steve reluctantly stands but pulls Bucky up in one motion.  

He takes Bucky into the bathroom and shows him where the soaps and towels are.

“You need help with anything else?” He asks suggestively.

Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, Rogers.”

He takes a step forward, his smile faltering. “I’m not quite ready for you to see me like this," he glances to his left shoulder, “not yet.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” The shadow of a smile reaches the corners of his mouth. “I shoulda asked.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky plants a light kiss on the edge of Steve’s lips.

Steve decides it’s best he takes a shower having not had one for several days. He takes it straight after Bucky, not needing to worry about the supply of hot water. He makes it quick anyway.

He slips into some clean clothes and heads back into the bedroom. Bucky isn’t there so he pads into the living room.   

The patio door is open. A light breeze travels into the apartment and it tangles into Steve’s damp hair.

Bucky’s figure is lined with a thread of gold. He’s sat in the centre of the wall, legs dangling carefree over the edge.

Steve lets the image overtake him and he feels the gold slip through his fingertips. He steps onto the roof and takes a seat next to Bucky. They’re thighs pressed together naturally.  

“Reminds me of our Brooklyn rooftop,” Bucky says after a few minutes.

“Maybe a bit bigger than our old one though.” Steve motions the change with his hands.

“Just a bit, yeah,” Bucky agrees.

 

_Freight car’s pull away in the dead of night and with it, a history unspent._

 

“You really remember those times?”

There’s a pause, long enough for Steve to think he’s overstepped. Bucky swallows and wrings his hands together.

“I remember…” he trails off, “the feeling. It’s like loosing your train of thought. _You_ know what you we’re going to say, but it’s out of reach now. Does that make any sense?”

He continues before Steve has a chance to reply. “Then I have memories, but it’s like someone’s taken a slice out of them, just enough for the meaning to be lost. But then some of them haven’t, only, the sounds gone from them, and I just wish I’d know what they mean, what they’re saying.”

Bucky lets out a long deliberate breath. “That’s what you get when you don’t let me speak for sixty years,” he jokes but Steve can hear the unease.  

“Truth is, a lot of them are so deep in my mind I’m not entirely sure how to get them back. I’ve been keeping them safe since 1945, it’s gonna take a while to crack the code on that one.”

Bucky rests his head sideways onto Steve’s shoulder and Steve matches the move by resting his on top.

“Hey Buck?”

“Hmm?”

“I guess we both really did make it to the future.”

“Yeah,” Bucky smiles, “I guess we did.”

 

 _Once again, the clock begins to tick in sync._   

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@thesupersoldiers](https://thesupersoldiers.tumblr.com)!


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